


Til I'm Not Lonely Anymore

by great_whatsit



Category: Harper (1966)
Genre: Albert is the only reason Lew is a functioning human being, I just have a lot of feelings about them ok, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27062539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_whatsit/pseuds/great_whatsit
Summary: In the spring of his sixteenth year, Lew hit his dad back. And then he left, without a backward glance.
Relationships: Lew Harper/Albert Graves





	Til I'm Not Lonely Anymore

Lew’s dad figured out Lew was queer when he was about eight years old, and he spent the rest of the time Lew lived in his home trying to beat it out of him. It took Lew a little longer than it did his dad to realize that he was different, but he got there around the time he turned 16. He knew it was bad and not to be talked about, but he also knew that it was undeniable, no matter what his dad thought.

In the spring of his sixteenth year, Lew hit his dad back. And then he left, without a backward glance.

Lew stopped going to school and spent almost a year sleeping on benches and in cars, or squatting in empty houses til he was inevitably found out and run off. Sometimes, he ran with some other kids. They were older and bigger, but Lew’s dad had made him tough and ruthless; everyone learned pretty quick not to mess with Lew. Together, they’d steal enough food to feed them all -- two creating a noisy distraction, one stuffing anything he could grab under his jacket before disappearing. They robbed liquor stores, too, the same way. When they ran out of places they weren’t recognized, they started going into homes. That was when Lew was arrested for the first time, a bottle of bourbon in one hand and a boxed, fancy silver set in the other. He walked after that one, but he wasn’t always so lucky. Here and there, he’d do short stretches in juvie; he always came out even more feral than he went in, and less concerned about risks. (Juvie was where Lew got his first handjob from a guy.)

After each trip to juvie, he was more brazen with his thieving, with his fighting, with his fucking. He’d practically dare shop owners, or cops, or friends to catch him, whether it was with a bag of potatoes or a knife in his hand, or another guy’s dick in his mouth. Lew figured it was only a matter of time before he got caught, so there was no reason to deny himself what he wanted. Sooner or later he’d be in jail, dead, or so beat up he may as well be dead.

And he would have been dead, too, were it not for one particular cop: Tom Waverly. Lew hated cops -- instinctively and completely -- and not a single one, ever, treated him in a way that made him rethink his opinions. Waverly, though -- Waverly was a good man despite being a cop. After seeing Lew in the drunk tank one too many times, he got him out, poured coffee into him, and took him home. Waverley’s home, not the one where Lew grew up. Waverly sat him down in a spare bedroom and gave him three rules: “One: you steal from me, I’m taking you in. Two: drink in my house or show up drunk, I’m kicking you out. Three: lie to me, and you're gone.”

Lew sneered and said “Yeah, like I’d ever listen to a cop,” and “What, you a faggot or something?”, and “Who put you up to this?” All his sneers got out of Waverly was “Dinner’s at 6. Wash up.”

Within a couple of months, Lew could sometimes forget he’d ever been in the street. He was back in school, working hard and realizing he was actually pretty sharp, and his life outside was boring as hell in the best possible way: he didn’t have to wonder whether or not people knew about him, didn’t have to act right around girls (whatever “right” meant), didn’t have to talk to anyone at all. Lew went to school, went back to Waverly’s, tidied up the house, did his homework, and had dinner with Waverly whenever he worked a regular shift. Sometimes, Lew ate on his own and washed up after, leaving a plate for Waverly in the fridge. He was almost ashamed of how quickly the place changed in his head from “Waverly’s place” to “home.”

+++

Lew graduated near the top of his class, and he beamed when he got his diploma, maybe cried a little when Waverly told him he was proud. Then Lew went to war.

+++

It took a war for Lew to go on a date. Sort of. It was a new thing for Lew, being able to actually talk to someone he was fucking. To get to know him, learn who he was, what he liked. Lew got out when things started feeling too intimate, but there were fleeting moments when he wondered if his life could be like this -- if he could be with a man in a way that wasn’t furtive and cursed and shameful. If it could be something normal.

It also took a war for Lew to get an actual friend -- someone he trusted like he trusted Waverly, and who trusted him back, without question. Lew didn’t understand why Albert treated him like he did, but after four months, he grudgingly accepted that it was for real: that Albert liked him, wanted to be around him without any ulterior motives. And so he teased Albert about girls, made fun of his instinctive, knee-jerk morality, and relaxed around him more than he had around anyone ever before. Lew sometimes forgot what he was like when he was relaxed, so infrequently did it happen, but with Albert he could feel that he was different -- talking differently, walking differently, even smiling sometimes. At first it scared him but, by the end of his deployment, he didn’t even bother to hide his joy when Albert told him he was going to be heading down to LA when he got home.

+++

It was assumed that Lew would join Waverly in the Long Beach PD when he got back to the States. Waverly wanted Lew to follow in his footsteps; Lew couldn’t think of anything else to do. At first, it was alright: Lew kept his head down, bantered with the other cops when necessary, did his job quietly and efficiently. Gradually, though, he realized that being in the police was just all the worst parts of being at war, bound up in a stiff, blue uniform. He was in danger of getting shot, he had to think every minute about not acting like a queer, and the other cops were all cocky assholes. For the first time, Lew remembered his time on the street fondly -- back then, when he was around guys like this, he could punch them or cut them and they’d stay out of his way. Here, they were everywhere, and he was supposed to like them. In the squad room, giving him shit about being short. Calling Reynolds a faggot because he got a haircut. Lying constantly, faking reports, planting weapons. And laughing through it all, like they were the kings of the fucking world.

It took Lew six months to quit. He never really talked to Waverly about it, just put in his notice and avoided his eyes.

He talked to Albert about it. Lew talked to Albert about everything (almost everything). He could feel himself starting to rely on Albert and he hated it, but he didn’t hate it quite enough to stop it. Albert was the one predictable, solid thing in his life, and Lew wasn’t going to let him go, even for the sake of quieting the voice in his head that had always told him to push people away; that told him that if they knew him, they could hurt him. For Albert, he learned to ignore that voice and, at least every other week, they got together and Lew relaxed: he talked too much, showed too much of himself, laughed himself sick at Albert’s latest agony over yet another girl.

The reality of ignoring the voice in his head somehow made Lew feel like he was putting himself even more at risk, walking along the edge of a cliff. But, God, what a relief to lower his defense for a few hours. He could speak without filter (almost without filter), he could slouch in chairs without thinking about how quickly he could get up and defend himself when someone decided to try him. He could smile and laugh and touch somebody without having to constantly second guess himself. With Albert, it was ok to lean on his shoulder, or put his arm around him, or slap his thigh. He suspected Albert knew what he was, but it seemed like Albert didn’t care. In their little bubble, no one was going to call Lew a queer and push him away, or punch him and never share space with him again.

+++

When he got news that Waverly died, Lew got in his car and drove. He didn’t call, didn’t think -- he just drove, then he pushed his way into Albert’s office and he fell apart. For the first time in his life, he sobbed, and Albert -- big, good-hearted, reliable Albert, put his arms around him and held him. He didn’t tell him it was ok, he didn’t tell him to stop, he didn’t ask any questions. He just waited while Lew released two decades worth of pain. No one had ever made him truly feel safe except for maybe Waverly, but that safety was practical: a house to live in, food to eat, support and encouragement in his endeavors. Albert’s safety was _everything_. Emotional; mental; physical. It was solid, and warm, and so vast he enveloped Lew almost completely when he put his arms around him. Lew let himself enjoy it, just for a moment, until he found the strength to pull away and stand up on his own.

Albert held out a handkerchief, as if he didn’t even notice the snot and tears that soaked his shirt. “You alright, Lew?”

Lew shook himself, trying to shift the pieces inside back into place. “Yeah.” He mopped at his face with the handkerchief and shoved it in a pocket. “Waverly died is all. An old man now.” A shrug.

Albert shifted toward him, like he wanted to hug him again. Lew mostly held himself still as the voice in his head told him he didn’t want that, didn’t need it.

“Oh, Lew. He was important to you.” Albert said it like it was a fact, not a question. He knew Lew, knew how he was put together. Lew slumped down on the couch and nodded; Albert settled next to him, his eyes still fixed on Lew’s face. “I’ll drive you to the funeral. Just let me know when.” Lew was relieved he said it like it was already decided, because it meant Lew didn’t have to ask.

He nodded. “I’ll call you.” Lew shot his cuffs and straightened his tie, eying Albert critically. “Don't you even look at yourself in the mirror anymore? That shirt is a mess!” He winked like nothing out of the ordinary had happened and let himself out of the office.

+++

Albert walks Lew through the funeral. He’s too exhausted to even mourn at this point, completely wrung out. After a while, he even stops muttering at Albert. About the flowers, Waverly’s asshole son, the pallbearers in dress uniform bullshit. He just lets Albert guide him: sit, stand, walk to the car. Sit again, for a while. Stand some more. Nod and smile sadly. Walk back to the car, sit down.

The next time Lew looks up, he’s in front of the LBPD station house, because of course the cops have decided _they_ should hold Waverly’s wake. Albert hadn’t wanted to come — he’d wanted to get Lew home and let him shut down, just sleep — but Lew had insisted. Something inside of him is determined to make an appearance, to show them that he knows they’re pricks, and that he hasn’t for a moment regretted leaving.

So Lew shows up and stands in the corner, his mouth tight and his eyes dark and taunting, daring them to talk shit, to laugh, to look to him. He stands and he drinks, shaking off Albert’s periodic, hopeful suggestions that maybe he’s proved his point, that they’re scared, and doesn’t he think maybe he’s had enough? Lew snorts at Albert and rolls his eyes, laughing without mirth or pleasure. He waits.

Eventually, a couple of guys, both of them still in their dress blues, approach him. The one whose name tag says “Sullivan” nods at him, and vaguely raises a glass. “Harper.”

Harper jerks his head up in greeting and his vision swims a little. “Sullivan.” He squints at the other guy’s name. “March. What can I do for you?” He feels far drunker than he had just a few minutes before.

Sullivan spreads the hand that’s not holding a beer in a gesture of innocence. “No, nothing. Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Heard you tried to be a private dick after you washed out. Who wants to hire a guy who failed as a cop?”

Harper lets his head fall back against the wall, his eyes still on Sullivan.

“Yeah,” adds March. He slides a little closer to Lew. “Plus, when the failed cop is a faggot- “

Lew’s fist hits March’s jaw almost before the word is spoken; March stumbles back, holding his mouth and spitting out blood. Then he comes back at Lew quick as a flash — it’s immediately clear he’s had far less to drink than Lew has — and fists hit Lew’s nose and eye in quick succession. There’s a terrible crunch, and blood is pouring down his face. He growls and charges gracelessly forward, his punches less than controlled but inescapable in their ferocity; every time they make contact with flesh it feels like a victory. He’s got March down on the ground with his knees on the cop’s biceps when he feels hands grab him, pulling him up and off. Lew yanks one arm free and swings wildly, but he’s yanked backward as the arms lock across his chest. He rears back and spits at March, snarling even as he stops fighting.

Because it’s Albert. Of course it’s Albert. His voice is firm and close to Lew’s ear: “Lew. We’re leaving.” Lew nods, and Albert releases him warily, keeping a hand on his shoulder. Lew turns and the arm slips around his shoulders; Albert guides him through the silent squad room.

+++

“Jesus, Lew, look at you.” Albert props Lew against his car, pushing his friend’s chin back with his hand in the hope the tilt will slow the flow of the blood coming out of his nose. “Dammit!” Albert wrinkles his own, undamaged nose at the blood on his hand and, after a second, wipes it off on Lew’s already bloody shirt. He rummages in the trunk and comes up with a dirty towel that he holds to Lew’s nose. Ignoring the muffled sounds of protest from behind the towel, he lifts Lew’s hand to replace his. “Hold it there. No. HOLD IT.”

Satisfied that his directive is being obeyed, Albert opens the passenger side door and steadies Lew as he slides in. “Don’t you dare puke in my car, Lew Harper.”

+++

Albert examines Lew’s face and dabs at the nasty cut over his right eye with a hydrogen peroxide-soak cotton ball, rolling his eyes at Lew’s hiss of pain. He talks almost absently as he works on Lew’s face, his movements small and practiced. “You can’t just - “ Albert pauses to smack at a hand that’s trying to push him away, continuing his ministrations despite the half-hearted efforts to stop him. “You can’t just beat up every man who calls you a faggot, Lew.” As he talks, Albert carefully dries Lew’s cut, then cuts strips of adhesive to hold it closed.

Lew’s eyes are closed, his head resting on the cabinet behind his head. He’s perched on the counter in the kitchenette in his office, at eye level with Albert, for once, wearing only an undershirt and shorts. (Home/office, he corrects himself internally. He can only afford one rent, and living in his office seemed the obvious thing to do.) “Yeah. But he’s an asshole and I really wanted to punch someone.” He rubs at his sore knuckles absently. “Definitely deserved it.”

Albert frowns, carefully placing a third plaster over Lew’s eye and moving down to clean off his badly swollen nose.

Lew shifts forward, and opens his eyes. Slouched on the counter, he looks closely at Albert from what feels like inches away. “I am, you know. A faggot. You know that, right?” There’s harshness, almost a taunt in his words, like Lew is still spoiling for a fight.

Albert’s eyes flick upward briefly, then his attention returns to the cloth he’s using to clean the dried blood off Lew’s face. He speaks as he works, the towel feather light on Lew’s aching nose, the other hand on the counter, just outside his left leg. “I know, yeah. So?” His eyes lift again, then drop. “Do you want me to give a shit?” Lew grunts as Albert gives his nose a final swipe. “I don’t care, Lew. I don’t care who you fuck.”

Lew grins at that -- sweet, quiet Albert swearing for emphasis means he’s far more worked up than he’s letting on. Lew shifts a little, so his left thigh rests hot against Albert’s hand, and his right hand reaches out, settles on Albert’s solid, warm shoulder. “‘M glad you know. And that you don’t care.”

Then he kisses Albert. Right there in his shithole office. Home/office. Covered in blood, he kisses Albert hard, full on the mouth. Albert freezes. Oh. Oh, no. Lew pulls back and draws in, making himself small and slipping instinctively into damage control mode.

“‘M sorry. So sorry.” He pulls his legs together, forcing Albert to back away. “‘M drunk. Should go to sleep.”

Albert breathes and nods slowly. “Mmmhm. You probably should.” But his left hand finds Lew’s thigh, just barely touching. Shaking, but there. He finally meets Lew’s eyes, and his right hand moves to fiddle with the hem of Lew’s undershirt. “Probably.” He watches, open and serious. Waiting.

Lew takes what’s being offered before Albert can change his mind. No more pretending, no more being careful. He pulls Albert to him, a firm hand on the back of Albert’s neck, slotting their mouths together; Albert just melts. He tastes like beer and cigarettes and like _Albert_ , and Lew doesn’t know when he’s been more turned on. He tightens the hand on Albert’s neck and moves him where he wants him. Albert makes a choked off little sound into his mouth and Lew’s drunk as hell, but this is intoxicating.

When Lew pulls back, he almost laughs. Albert's eyes are wide, and his mouth is slightly open -- he looks stunned. Not scared, Lew is relieved to see, more like he’s trying to make the reality he’s living fit with the one he’d occupied 30 seconds ago. Lew watches and waits, his hand still loose on the back of Albert’s neck. Albert clears his throat, then removes and carefully folds his glasses, putting them safely on the shelf behind Lew. He runs his hands down Lew’s chest, touching and grounding himself. Grounding them both. “Hey,” Lew whispers. “Hey.” Albert startles, then looks up. Fuck. Lew wants to take him apart. “You with me?” He touches Albert’s face, waiting, dragging his thumb across Albert’s already bruised bottom lip, just because he can. His knees are still against Albert’s hips. holding him steady. Albert nods, his eyes locked with Lew’s. He’s so serious. “Yeah, Lew. I’m good. Really good.” Lew gives him a shark’s grin and Albert sucks in a hard breath, flushing.

+++

Lew’s not used to trusting people, and fucking the one person he trusts is an entirely foreign experience for him. It makes him uncomfortable, having all of his eggs in this one, ridiculous basket, but Christ he loves having Albert in his bed. Loves how quickly he can reduce smart, collected, competent Albert to wordless desperation; loves being the object of Albert’s focus as he systematically learns how to take Lew apart; loves waking up with Albert wrapped around him, a physical barrier against the world.

Albert is worth the discomfort, and the confusion, even the terrible feeling of being known. They'll figure it out.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'm just writing this stuff in an effort to get these people out of my head. This is the longest, most coherent thing I've ever written, though, so I'm pretty sure my clever plan is backfiring.
> 
> The cop guardian is hinted at in one of the books, but all of the details are entirely mine.
> 
> Please watch _Harper_.
> 
> Title from "Lost Boy" by The Midnight.


End file.
